The Riviera revels in spring

Halfway between the Riviera and the Middle Ages lies Vence, France, where the quaint and the colorful impressionistically embroider a broad, historical canvas.

By EDWARD D. WEBSTER

© St. Petersburg Times, published March 25, 2001

Photos: Edward D. Webster] This colorful float was an entry in Vence’s procession and battle of flowers, the Corso et bataille de fleurs.

VENCE, France -- We sat on bleachers at the edge of the square, as the crowd grew. Toddlers fidgeted, grandmothers in patterned dresses chatted in French and turned their faces up to savor spring sunshine, parents meted out coins to older kids eager to buy prizes.

In the street, vendors enticed the kids with pinwheels and cans of soda. From their carts, clusters of hot pink bunny balloons and yellow Tweety birds bounced with the breeze.

From quaint cafes and bars, white-aproned waiters bustled with trays of coffee and croissants. Above the cafes, from three levels of wrought-iron balconies next to turquoise or brown shutters and windows, people waited for the spectacle to begin.

The event was dubbed Corso et bataille de fleurs, which translates roughly as "procession and battle of flowers." And all of these folks, residents of Vence and nearby villages, knew what to expect. But for my wife, Marguerite, and me, all was new.

And for Marguerite, who is blind, the experience would be revealed in sounds -- the patois of the French-speaking crowd and smells -- the scents of the crisp air and flowers. She would have my explanations, too . . .

It was Easter Monday 1999, and we already had explored the streets in the medieval heart of Vence, nestled in the hills 20 miles west of Nice. For today's celebration, ancient city gates were outlined in multicolored floral arcs. On the cobblestone alleys lay competing floral displays: colorful flags and coats of arms, a lavender angel outlined in white, a holy cross in shades of red.

Drumbeats echoed off the walls of the square, and Marguerite smiled. I turned right toward the sound but could see only the crowd, the nearby buildings and -- at the end of the street -- the walls of the old city.

Soon men appeared, wavering on stilts above the assembly. One was dressed in royal blue, one in emerald, another scarlet, in turbans with plumes and velvet shirts, and they were beating tambourines like crazy.

Another set of the stilt-walkers followed, in oversize black gaucho hats with red velvet jackets, white shirts and gold ties. These fellows pounded an even cadence on drums, and the thumping hammered in my chest.

They crossed the open space and all too soon disappeared behind buildings, but their muffled music still surrounded us. Floats covered with blossoms rolled into view: A huge pink and white rooster; a red and white tortoise competing with the laid-back, pink-bellied hare; a miniature Notre Dame cathedral, complete with rose window.

Then the floats disappeared, but still those drummers beat a furious rhythm, somewhere out of sight. Eventually, the drumbeats grew sharp, and the stilt-walkers reappeared, marching toward us down the main street, then circling the square.

The half-dozen floats cruised by just in front of us, followed now by a flower-decked carriage bearing the Reine de Vence 1999 (Queen of Vence) with her maids, all in lacy bonnets and old-fashioned dresses made of Provencal fabrics.

Children on the floats hurled flowers into the crowd. I caught lilies and carnations and gave them to Marguerite for her hair. Soon she was well adorned and beaming with delight.

For us this moment was the high point of Vence's Easter Week, but the parade was by no means the only entertainment.

With concerts, art expositions, a procession of 15th through 19th century characters, folklore stories, comedy theater (all in French naturellement), plants, art and poetry, Vence offered a steady stream of events throughout April and into May. There were too many activities for us to handle.

Medieval city steeped in history

The parade ended, and the crowd filed from the bleachers. If we walked to our left, we could browse contemporary France: a cinema, supermarkets, drugstores and such -- everything needed by the 15,000 people living here and the folks in nearby villages.

But we chose the other path and strode under the flower-decked stone arch.

Inside the ancient town a cylindrical granite fountain poured water from four spigots. A sign informed us that the first fountain on this site had been constructed in 1578. It had been one of only two sources of water for the walled city during those perilous centuries.

Part of the excitement of this country, the land above the French Riviera, is that it has not always been tranquil. Its stones bear the marks of centuries of warfare, from ruined castles to stone worship circles hidden in the hills to World War II fortifications.

During wars fought for territory, for religion, for dominance of the landscape that was to become France, the residents of Vence had often huddled within these protective walls, struggling to keep out bands of marauders, strangers who might be carrying the plague, armies of Saracens, the Holy Roman Emperor, the House of Savoy, to name a few.

Vence had been too frequently in the path of history.

Seafood and produce is set out to tempt shoppers in the narrow Impasse du Grand Four.

We followed alleys between cobblestoned squares not much changed from medieval times but a world apart in disposition. Now, shops displayed pottery and bright fabrics -- sunflower yellows, pine bough greens and royal blues -- in the square. Inside, spices, soaps and perfumes enveloped us in floral scents.

We added to the color of the occasion by offering our blue and silver plastic card for purchases, then stepped out into Clemenceau Square, the heart of the Old City and once site of a Roman forum.

Passing the City Hall decked in the tri-color French flag, we came to the narrow buttermilk-colored facade of the cathedral. In a niche, a golden Madonna and Child looked down on the square.

Inside the unpretentious building lay fragments of a Greco-Roman sarcophagus, the tombs of saints Lambert and Veran and a 1979 mosaic by Marc Chagall.

As the afternoon progressed, grocery stores set out their fare to attract predinner shoppers. We headed for my favorite place in old Vence, the narrowest of passageways, the Impasse du Grand Four (roughly, the Blind Alley of the Large Oven).

Between opposing rows of stone buildings, we bought tomatoes and pears, took three steps across the alley to contemplate delicacies from squid salad to aubergine farcie (stuffed eggplant) at a traiteur (sort of a gourmet deli). At a seafood market where ice-lined cartons were set out in the alley, I offered Marguerite a chance to shake tentacles with an octopus, but she declined the offer.

But we did stop in the petite patisserie for a chocolate eclair and a strawberry tart.

Apartment on the hill

With sacks of groceries in hand, we climbed to the apartment we had rented for three weeks. As Marguerite put away provisions, I opened a sliding glass door and stepped onto our balcony. Looking beyond the ancient walled town, I could see the gleaming Mediterranean on the horizon.

To the right it blazed dazzling white where the sun concentrated its brilliance over the Cap d'Antibes peninsula. On the left, by Nice, the sea glistened pale sapphire.

Marguerite and I had discovered this heaven on a hill on a previous trip. Spending 10 months in Europe with our cat, Felicia, we had rented this spot in the fall of 1997 and now again in April '99.

The third-floor apartment offered one bedroom furnished in French Provincial, with inlaid wood roses on the headboard, dresser and vanity table, and gilt-framed pictures of Louis XIV-style lords and ladies. The second, less-ornate, bedroom featured a mini-balcony with a view up the hills, past silver-green olive trees and a chateau, to sheer, rocky cliffs.

There was also a dining room, kitchen with washing machine and dishwasher and two TVs. The living room lounge chairs provided a view of both the town and sea.

From this base we explored. Though we surveyed the glitzy cities of the Riviera, we soon found that Vence and the hills away from the sea offered a way of life much more precious.

Behind Vence, the village of Coursegoules climbs the hillside.

Picture a rim of mountains capped in rock cliffs with deeply carved foothills running down to the sea. Age-old hilltop hamlets dot the wooded hills.

Picture picket fences swathed in lavender wisteria, cream-colored houses roofed in terra cotta, and dooryards full of rose bushes.

Imagine driving among hills draped in olive trees and white-blossomed fruit trees in the Var River valley.

This is spring in the Provencal hills near Vence. To guide us through the region, we followed a map called Cote d'Azur for Connaisseurs. Icons on the map directed us to special features of each town -- craftspeople, cities with Baroque or Belle Epoque architecture, art museums, golf courses and more.

We gravitated to villages of character, preferably those with a little pitcher symbol denoting crafts sellers. There were 30 or 40 of these villages within easy drive of Vence, and we ventured out often.

In these rural towns, built centuries ago as defensive hilltop clusters, we strolled walkways that wound between three-story slate houses adorned with shutters, topped in Provencal tile with planters full of flowers.

At the crest of most any hill in these villages, we would find a small square with a view over blossoming fruit trees and lush ravines to other hilltop hamlets. In the square, a church would usually dominate -- perhaps stone, perhaps stuccoed and painted a pale gold or mauve, with a niche housing a saintly figure and a tower capped by a wrought-metal belfry.

Although there were similarities, each town held some different charm, a new local dish to try, some special encounter with the townspeople.

In Tourrettes sur Loup, for instance, the white-haired woman who sold us decorated sacks of rosemary and thyme and oak-and-glass herb grinders stayed close to the blazing stove in the corner, as she protested about the chill of the old buildings.

Her French was rhythmic, simple and to us about 75 percent comprehensible.

She lamented that we had missed the festival of violets and complimented my French. Before we left, she gave Marguerite a palm-size sack of lavender.

Each shopkeeper took time to chat, to offer a few kind words, and frequently there was a small gift for Marguerite -- a sack of herbs, a tiny bottle of perfume, a handpainted card from the artist -- and profuse wishes for our good day and delightful journey.

Farewell

Marguerite and I sat by an upstairs window in the Pigeonnier Restaurant on a square near the city gate in Vence. It was our final night in town and our third visit to the Pigeonnier.

Nearby, two well-dressed women in their 60s sat at a table, their cocker spaniel occupying a third chair. Old, splintered beams spanned the ceiling at more or less regular intervals. A fireplace with a built-in compartment above held a ceramic pigeon. Outside, lamps illuminated the square with its huge fig tree in the center. The fountain spurted water in four directions, as it had for centuries.

Marguerite was savoring her baked dish of mussels au gratin, as I took the last bite of my goat cheese salad.

With camera in hand, I approached the women. "May I take your photo?" I asked in French.

"But, Monsieur, we are not anything special." The redheaded woman responded, with a giggle, as she straightened the collar of her blouse.

"Oh yes, you are, and with your puppy, you make a perfect trio."

They consented.

Back at our table I pulled the Cote d'Azur for Connaisseurs from my pocket. "Just beyond Carros Village, where we had lunch the other day," I said, "there's another "town of character,' and there must be 10 more not too far away."

Marguerite answered, "They'll be baking fresh croissants in the morning, but we'll be leaving."

"We'll have to come back," I said.

Edward D. Webster is a freelance writer who lives in Ojai, Calif.

If you go

STAYING THERE: For a hotel, consider Pension La Lubiane, both the most reasonable and most modest place, with clean, basic rooms, a second-floor terrace with great views, and a comfortable dining room. Rooms run from about 210-310 francs (about $30 to $44) for a double. Contact the hotel at 10 Avenue Marechal Joffre, Vence 06140, France. Call (011 33) 4 93 58 0110, fax (011 33) 4 93 58 84 44.

Hotel Diana is also clean and modern, with good views of the mountains. Avenue des Poilus, Vence. Call (011 33) 4 93 58 28 56, fax (011 33) 4 93 24 64 06.

Click for larger map

Villa Roseraie is a bit more expensive than some but with more antiques, ambience and amenities, including a pleasant garden and swimming pool. 480-730 francs (about $68 to $104), double. Avenue Henri Giraud, Vence 06140. Call (011 33) 4 93 58 02 20, fax (011 33) 4 93 58 99 31, e-mail rvilla5536@aol.fr.

For a longer stay, Groux Immoblier is a realty agent with a few apartments to rent at reasonable prices (2000 francs, about $284 per week in April, twice that in summer). Contact well ahead, especially for the summer season. Call (011 33) 4 93 24 66 69, fax (011 33) 4 93 58 85 52.

TO DO THERE: There are worthwhile Picasso museums in Antibes and Vallauris. The Chateau de Villeneuve in Vence and the Galerie Beaubourg near Vence are great to visit. Matisse Chapel in Vence and the Maeght Foundation outside the town of St. Paul de Vence are highly recommended.

A booklet titled Rando Pedestre, from the local tourist office, outlines hikes in the area, but it leaves out most of the trails, which are well-marked and seem to run between most of the towns.

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